Dark Alliance
by Dark Side Luke
Summary: Before the events of Syphon Filter, Gabe and Anton Girdeaux form an uneasy alliance to stop production of an early strain of the Syphon Filter virus. Rated PG-13 for violence in later chapters.


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Dark Alliance

By Dark Side Luke

Disclaimer: I do not own Syphon Filter or its characters. I am not making any money off of this piece of fanfiction. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

A/N: I tried to stay as true to the history of SF as I could, but there's not much to go by. If you see any problems between this story and the stories of Syphon Filter, please include them in your reviews. Thank you.

PROLOGUE

Dr. Freid watched the beaker filled with clear liquid intently, as if expecting it to explode any moment. He pretended he could see every particle, every molecule, and every strand of the virus within the beaker. Just the thought of being so close to the virus made him break out in a cold sweat and not only because he was slightly afraid of it being spilled and being infected. He was excited at the thought that one of his creations -- even if it was a deadly bio-weapon -- was going to be successful, that he would finally be recognized for his work. His pulse quickened with the thought of being so close to being famous.

He stood and turned away from the smooth, black lab bench, which was cluttered with beakers, test tubes, pipettes, tongs and other tools often seen in a high-school chemistry lab. Dr. Freid, being an unrecognized scientist, was seriously under-funded and had to order supplies from high school suppliers, getting inexpensive and sometimes ineffective materials.

The elderly scientist removed his surgical mask, revealing timeworn features under a silver beard. His pale blue eyes looked tired, with crow's feet underneath them. He yawned and looked at the clock on the wall: 12:05. Well past his bedtime. With another yawn and a stretch, he shuffled towards the door, feeling much older than he actually was.

When he got to the door, he was surprised to see his young assistant, Dr. Weissinger, waiting for him. She was thirty years old, but looked not a day over twenty with long blonde hair and sparkling brown eyes. Her features seemed fragile, and her body was slight, as if she was crumble at a touch and be blown away by a weak wind. Dr. Freid stood a little straighter as he approached.

"Sorry to bother you Dr. Freid," Dr. Weissinger said with a thick German accent that Freid found appealing. "But I have an urgent message for you."

"It's no bother, Elsa," Freid said, shutting off the lights in the lab and closing the door, locking it tightly. He did not wish for anyone to chance upon his creation for fear of death upon the person, or for it to be stolen. "I didn't hire you to run errands, you know," he continued, pocketing the door key in his stained lab coat.

Dr. Weissinger smiled, nearly melting the old man's heart. "I know that, Dr. Freid," she said. "But a man called about your research. He seemed most interested, particularly about the SF virus."

Freid's eyes widened with surprise and shock. He was shocked about the fact that someone was interested in his virus -- named SF for his dead son, Samuel Freid -- and surprised that someone even knew about the bio-weapon. He had kept the details of the virus classified, and only a few people knew about it. Someone must have talked.

Freid scratched at his bald head, trying to look calm and casual, but failing miserably. "Uh, t-that's very good, Elsa," he stammered. "Tell me, what is the, uh, name of this man?"

Dr. Weissinger reached into her stainless, pressed lab coat and produced a neatly folded piece of paper. She unfolded the paper and quickly read it. 

"He calls himself Erich Rhoemer."

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CHAPTER ONE -- Meetings

Thomas Markinson looked out the large window behind his desk, hardly even seeing the White House and the setting sun beyond. He had his one leg crossed over the other, his elbows resting on the armrests, his fingers steepled in front of his face. With one finger, he pushed his sunglasses -- which he wore everywhere, no matter the lack of light -- farther up the bridge of his nose. 

Behind him, he heard the oak door open and someone step onto the carpeted floor. Although the person was being quiet, the room was quiet and sounds reverberated around the room. Markinson could hear the clink of keys in a pocket, the scuff of boots on the carpet and -- since Markinson knew the person was armed -- the slight clatter of a pistol in a plastic holster.

Markinson swiveled his chair around to regard the person standing before his desk. The man was in his mid-thirties, tall with medium length black hair and dark brown eyes. It looked like he hadn't shaved in two or three days. He wore a flak jacket over worn camouflage fatigues. His right hand, which wore finger-less gloves, rested on his right hip, over his holstered 9mm pistol. Markinson frowned slightly at that hand. He always got the impression that his best agent never trusted him.

"Gabriel Logan," Markinson said, greeting the agent. "Have a seat. We have urgent matters to discuss."

Logan pulled up one of the leather-cushioned chairs on his side of the desk and sat in it. Even sitting, he still looked ready to jump into action, like a coiled spring. Logan met Markinson's gaze evenly, waiting patiently for the older man to begin.

"We've found evidence of a new type of bio-weapon," Markinson said slowly, getting straight to the point. No sense in beating around the bush; Logan wouldn't stand for it. "One that could be most dangerous in the wrong hands. I want you to investigate."

Logan arched an eyebrow. "And?" he asked in a deep voice.

"Find those responsible for the making of this virus," Markinson continued. "Try to take a prisoner or two for questioning, so we can find out what this virus is, who made it, what it does."

"Where is this virus located?"

Markinson hesitated. "South America," he said at last. "We're not too sure of the location."

"You're sending me on a wild goose-chase?" It wasn't exactly a question. Logan stated it as if it were fact.

"Not exactly. There's a man who knows where the virus is kept, but he won't tell us. He wants to show you."

"A mercenary who wants to play tour guide?" Logan asked. Again, the statement wasn't exactly a question. The agent was beginning to grow on Markinson's nerves. "How can I trust him?"

"He's signed a nice little contract and will receive a nice little sum of money. He'll be paid once you have been shown the virus' location. If he turns on you or you die, he gets nothing."

"So, he'll be forced to watch my back?" Logan mused to himself. "Alright," he said to Markinson. "Besides the merc, will I have any backup?"

"Lian Xing will provide information to you via radio, but that's all. The only covering fire you'll receive is from the mercenary." Markinson reached into a drawer in his desk and produced a file folder with a classified stamp on it. He pushed the folder across the desk and Logan picked it up, opening it and removing a sheet of paper.

"That's who you'll be working with," Markinson said, watching Gabriel as he read the paper.

"Anton Girdeaux," Logan read aloud. "Age: 29. Birthplace: Toulouse, France. Height: 6'0". Weight: 200 pounds. Eye color: Blue. Hair color: Blonde. Mercenary for hire, 1992 - present. Machinist, 1988 - 1992. No official records linking him to any significant crime." Logan flipped the paper over, but found nothing on the other side. "That's it?" he asked. "I've never heard of this guy before. Is he good?"

"I guess you'll just have to find out," Markinson said with a small shrug. He stood up and Logan did the same, placing the piece of paper back into the folder and sliding it across the desk. "Girdeaux will meet you at the airport in an hour. Get ready for your trip in the meantime. Good luck, Logan, and Godspeed."

Gabriel looked at Markinson oddly for a moment before turning and heading out the door, closing it behind him politely. When he left, Markinson sat in his chair and brooded over the events to come.

***

Gabe stood in the armory in Agency headquarters, loading an HK-5 pistol-machine gun when Lian Xing, followed closely by Teresa Lipan, entered the room, talking amongst themselves.

"You won't change your mind?" Lian asked, brushing a spot of dirt off of her flak jacket, which Gabe considered two sizes too small. Her stomach showed, making an easy target for anyone smart enough to shoot there. No matter how many times Gabe told her this, Lian would not wear a larger, more protective vest.

Women, Gabe thought, sliding a clip into the machine gun and sliding back the bolt. No matter what the situation, they have to be fashionable.

"I'm not changing my mind, Lian," Teresa said, scratching her head beneath her worn toque, the one piece of clothing she wore no matter what the occasion -- unless formal dress was required.

"Changing your mind about what?" Gabe asked, holstering the gun inches above his left knee and using Velcro to keep it in place. He flexed his leg a few times experimentally.

"I'm leaving the Agency," Teresa announced. "For good. I'm just so tired with all the paperwork, about not getting enough assignments in the field. It's starting to tick me off."

Gabe arched a quizzical eyebrow. "Really?" he asked. "Leaving the Agency? That's news. What will you do? Where will you go?"

"I'll travel around a bit," Teresa said, leaning against a shelf holding various rifles. She toyed with one of the gun's barrels while speaking. "Maybe go freelance, collect some information for those who need it. You guys might even need it," she said with a smile. 

"Well, partners outside of the Agency could be useful someday," Lian said. "I just don't see that day coming."

Gabe said nothing as he slid a few extra HK-5 clips into pouches at his belt. He added a few 9mm clips as well, loading one into his pistol. He checked the sights of the gun, pointing it at a nearby wall. He holstered the gun and picked up a silencer, sliding it into a pouch at his belt.

"You never know," Teresa said.

"So, Gabe," Lian said. "Have you been briefed about our new mission?"

"With Girdeaux? Yeah. Sounds like a snap."

Lian chuckled. "Don't get too overconfident. We might not be able to trust this merc."

"As long as he gets paid, he'll do his job," Gabe replied.

"But will he do it well?"

Gabe froze as he grabbed for an air taser on one of the higher shelves, his hand above his head. He had never considered that thought. What if this Girdeaux was a terrible, bumbling merc who got him killed before Gabe found the virus location? The thought nearly made him panic, but he fought for control. "He'll do fine," Gabe said, reassuring himself more than Lian. He grabbed the air taser and examined it for a moment. "He'd better do fine," he muttered.

***

Anton Girdeaux walked through the rain of his hometown of Toulouse, France, heading for his home, when two dark shapes detached themselves from the shadows of an alley. Anton immediately grabbed for the Desert Eagle handgun within his damp jacket when one of the strangers spoke.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Girdeaux." The voice was that of a man, deep and resonant, with the hint of an accent Anton could not place. Anton froze with his hand on the butt of the pistol, waiting for the man to continue, his icy blue eyes darting around, looking for any possible threats.

"We know you've been hired for a certain...project," the man continued. "You leave for Washington within the hour."

Anton applied a firmer grip to the pistol in his jacket. The rain drummed on his head, soaking his hair, his clothes, dripping in his eyes and blurring his vision. He hated the rain, the cold; he preferred the warm heat of a fire any day of the week to this misery. "So you know some facts about me," he said, his voice carrying the thick French accent he had never tried to shake off. "That's no reason to harass me in the rain."

"We're simply having a conversation, Mr. Girdeaux," the man said, stepping closer. Anton tensed, ready to draw the gun at a moment's notice. His hand began to grow clammy with sweat as it gripped tightly on the pistol. "Yes, we some facts about you," the man continued. "And we would like for you to come with us so our employer may speak to you."

"I have already taken a job," Anton said, glancing at the other man -- he assumed it was a man -- before looking back at the speaker. "I do not wish to take on another."

"That's where you are mistaken," the man said. "This job is closely related to the one you have already taken. We know you are to show the whereabouts of a certain laboratory. Our employer needs that laboratory's location to remain a secret."

Will they kill me to keep it a secret? Anton thought, taking an involuntary step back. 

"Our employer wants you to kill whoever you are leading to the lab," the man said.

"Then I will not get paid," Anton countered.

"Our employer will pay you handsomely. All you need to do is talk to him. Follow us, and you will see."

Anton took his hand off the gun, letting his arm fall to his side. The rain continued to beat down, with more fury than before, but he hardly felt it, so intent were his thoughts on money. "Who is your employer?" Anton asked slowly.

"A man you will learn to admire," the man said. "But, please, let us go inside and warm up. It is not suiting to speak of business in the rain."

Anton suddenly felt chilled and soaked to the bone once more as the man spoke. He smiled and gestured down the alley the man had emerged from. "Lead the way," he said.

A/N: I hope you didn't find this chapter too boring, but I need to set the scene, etc. Later chapters will contain violence, bloodshed...y'know, the good stuff. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please review.


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